 | King Lear |  |
Enter Gloster and Edmund.
Glo.
Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural
dealing. When I desired their leave that I might
pity him, they took from me the use of mine own
house; charg'd me, on pain of perpetual displeasure,
neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way
sustain him.
Edm.
Most savage, and unnatural!
Glo.
Go to; say you nothing. There is division between
the dukes; and a worse matter than that: I
have received a letter, this night; 'tis dangerous to be
spoken. I have locked the letter in my closet. These
injuries the king now bears, will be revenged home.
There is part of a power already footed; we must incline
to the king; I will look for him, and privily relieve
him. Go you and maintain talk with the duke,
that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask
for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as
no less is threaten'd me, the king, my old master,
must be relieved.
[Exit.
Edm.
This courtesy forbid thee, shall the duke
Instantly know; and of that letter too.
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
That which my father loses: no less than all.
The younger rises, when the old doth fall.
[Retires.
Gloster returns, followed by Cordelia and Arante; Edmund observing at a distance.
Cord.
Turn, Gloster, turn; by the sacred pow'rs,
I do conjure you give my griefs a hearing.
For you were always styl'd the just and good.
Glost.
What wou'dst thou, princess? Rise, and speak thy griefs.
Cor.
Nay, you shall promise to redress 'em too,
Or here I'll kneel for ever. I entreat
Thy succour for a father, and a king!
An injur'd father, and an injur'd king!
Edm.
O charming sorrow! How her tears adorn her.
Glo.
Consider, princess,
For whom thou begg'st; 'tis for the king that wrong'd thee.
Cord.
O name not that; he did not, cou'd not wrong me.
Nay, muse not, Gloster, for it is too likely
This injur'd king, e'er this, is past your aid,
And gone distracted with his savage wrongs.
Edm.
I'll gaze no more—and yet my eyes are charm'd.
Cord.
Or, what if it be worse;
As 'tis too probable this furious night
Has pierc'd his tender body; the bleak winds
And cold rain chill'd, or light'ning struck him dead;
If it be so your promise is discharg'd,
And I have only one poor boon to beg,
With my torn robes to wrap his hoary head,
With my torn hair to bind his hands and feet,
Then, with a show'r of tears,
To wash his clay-smear'd cheeks, and die beside him.
Glost.
Rise, fair Cordelia, thou hast piety
Enough t'atone for both thy sister's crimes:
I have already plotted to restore
My injur'd master; and thy virtue tells me
We shall succeed, and suddenly.
[Exit.
Cord.
Dispatch, Arante. We'll instantly
Go seek the king, and bring him some relief.
Ar.
How, madam! are you ignorant
Of what your impious sisters have decreed?
Immediate death for any that relieve him.
Cord.
I cannot dread the furies, in this case.
Ar.
In such a night as this! Consider, madam,
For many miles about, there's scarce a bush
To shelter in.
Cord.
Therefore no shelter for the king;
And more our charity to find him out.
What have not women dar'd for vicious love?
And we'll be shining proofs that they can dare
For piety as much. [Thunder.]
Blow winds, and lightnings fall,
Bold in my virgin innocence I'll fly,
My royal father to relieve or die.
[Exit.
Edm.
We'll instantly
Go seek the king.—Ha! ha! a lucky change!
That virtue which I fear'd would be my hind'rance,
Has prov'd the bond to my design:
I'll bribe two ruffians shall at a distance follow,
And seize 'em in some desert place; and there
Whilst one retains her t'other shall return
T'inform me where she's lodg'd. I'll be disguis'd, too,
Whilst they are poching for me, I'll to the duke;
Where, like the vig'rous Jove, I will enjoy
This Semele in a storm.
[Exit.
The lines hereafter, taken from Shakespeare's original, are such an enrichment to the part, that we wish every lady who represents Cordelia, would speak them.
Cor.Oh, speak not thus! He did not, could not wrong me.
Besides, I have heard this poor, unhappy king,
Contending with the fretful elements,
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main;
That things might change, or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives, in his little world of man, to out-scorn
The to-and-fro conflicting winds and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion, and the belly-pinched wolf,
Keep their fur dry; unbonetted he runs,
And bids what will take all.
| King Lear | |